


strange how the night moves

by sxldato



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Episode: s11e04 Baby, M/M, One Night Stands, Queer Sam Winchester, Season/Series 11 Spoilers, Slight Canon Divergence, and dean is not, sam's really good at being queer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5111618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean might have known, might have stored it somewhere in the back of his head. But it's been thirty-six years, and he's gotten pretty good at ignoring things that make him think too hard. </p><p>Or: What would have happened if Sam's one night stand hadn't been with a woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strange how the night moves

**Author's Note:**

> i've been listening to Night Moves on and off for the past two days and it's been a thrilling adventure  
> can we just. can we take a moment to acknowledge the utter perfection of this episode. it was everything i could have wanted, short of a confirmation of either sam or dean being queer (but. okay. sam used neutral pronouns when he asked if dean ever wanted to get serious with someone??? bless this man)  
> exactly what it says on the tin tbh, i just wanted to write something cute and gay  
> this was super short so it is, in fact, beta'd (hold your applause). and y'all know where the title is from  
> have fun kids (and have a great + safe halloween if you celebrate it!)

He'd slept on this worn leather more than he'd slept in a real bed. It was familiar under his body, warm, didn't chafe his roughened skin. As years ticked by like tally marks (another twelve months, and then another, and he was still around, and it felt like he was beating a disease that had guaranteed he'd be gone a long time ago), he stretched out, limbs branching out and corded muscle wrapping around like ivy. The Impala stayed the same; the Legos rattled in the heater during the winter, and the little green soldiers stared at their surroundings from their permanent trench in the ashtray. They'd seen their fair share, those soldiers. 

Being able to rely on a constant, having a place to call home wherever he was, finding sanctuary here... It brought order. It kept him alive. 

But goddamn, his legs were cramping up something fierce. 

He'd woken in a mess of his own tangle of arms and legs on the floorboards, a dull throb in his head from his inevitable fall off the seat instead of a hangover. He'd been sober-- well, no, he'd had a few beers, but it wasn't like _that_. Just a buzz, a sensation of lightness that pulled some of the weight from his shoulders, at least for one night. No lapse of memory, no headache, no regret. 

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this free, this _okay_. 

He pushed himself up on his elbows, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness in his muscles, and looked over at the figure sprawled across the backseat.

His hair was longer than Sam's, soft blonde curls cascading around his face as he slept. His eyes were closed, but Sam remembered their color; dark and blue and beautiful, like a rolling tide. Like Jess's. 

Sam could never really figure out if he had a type, or if this was some perpetual state of grief. A sixth step after Acceptance, one that shaped his attraction to people based on how much of Jess he saw in them. 

He'd have married her, he knew he would have. Matching rings on their fingers and a tiny apartment in Palo Alto until they could find someplace nice, a neat little house with a white picket fence and shutters that matched Jess's eyes. And kids, maybe, if Jess wanted them as much as Sam did. Two or three girls and boys with toothy smiles playing in the yard, scraping their knees and bruising their elbows and doing all the things kids were supposed to do. And they would never have been afraid of monsters under their beds. And everything would have been fine.

He didn't like venturing into that part of his brain. Masochism was only okay when accompanied with aftercare, and this couldn't be healed with aloe vera or an ice pack. He wasn't stifling himself, that wasn't it at all, he just needed to stay out of those thoughts. They turned dark too quickly, and there was enough darkness around already. 

Those eyes-- the ones he was with now, not those he lost to the fire when he was young and untouched by love's sharp sting-- fluttered open, and Sam was pulled back in to the whirlwind of the present. He kisses him and a name rings at the back of his skull through the fatigue-induced fog:  _Piper_. 

"You sleep alright?" He asked, bending into the crook of Piper's shoulder, finding the dark splotches of red and purple he'd left the night before and pressing his lips to them gently.

Piper hummed his assent. "Those little guys watched me while I slept," he whispered, pointing to the toy soldiers in the ashtray.

"They _are_ military men," Sam said, humor gracing his words, making them light. "It's their job to look out for you, keep you safe."

Piper grinned, reached up to run his hand through the loose tangles in Sam's hair, and Sam tried his damnedest not to lean too far into the contact. He wasn't touch-starved, wasn't unstable, wasn't plagued by guilt or loneliness. Not right now. Not when the rest of the world wasn't crushing him yet. It was waiting patiently outside the Impala, because it knew he'd have to face it again, like he always did. He couldn't hide between the leather seats forever. 

Maybe this wasn't love, maybe it was nothing but an impulsive and brief affair with a beautiful waiter he'd met last night, but... No one had looked at him like this before. Piper expected something, Sam realized, and it wasn't the typical post-fling free breakfast. No, this was when explanations were given, when stories were shared over cups of coffee, when they exchanged pieces of themselves in between putting their clothes back on. This was the part where they made themselves _human_  and  _real_  and not just an anonymous fuck in some blink-and-it's-gone town. 

"Where'd you come from, boy?" Piper whispered, folding his arms and resting his head there.

Sam wanted to say that _this_ was where he came from, this fucking _car_  was his home, carried him and his brother through all the bullshit they'd faced. Through the apocalypse. Through lifetimes and through moments of death. His own body, he wanted to say, his own  _corpse_ had ridden right here while his brother kept the accelerator slammed against the floor, searching for a way to buy more time. But he couldn't say that, couldn't give Piper those things. For one, he didn't have enough pieces of himself to give away anymore. And even if he had enough, he'd been through the wringer enough times to know how it would end if he did. No one else was going up in flames, not if he could help it.

He was saved, sort of, when Dean opened the driver's door and climbed into the front seat without seeing either of them. 

But then Piper went, "What the hell?" And Dean noticed.

And then Dean got very pale. And then pink bloomed on his cheeks, and he mumbled something about letting them get dressed before spilling back out of the car and trudging across the pavement.

"Wait, was that--" Piper began.

"Yeah," Sam answered. "... Shit." 

One way or another, Sam was going to be explaining _something_ to _someone_ this morning.

-

Dean might have known, might have stored it somewhere in the back of his head. But it had been thirty-six years, and he'd gotten pretty good at ignoring things that made him think too hard. 

This was definitely one of those things. 

After making eye contact with the stranger in his car, holding it for ten seconds, and then seeing his baby brother  _stark naked_  next to the man, Dean decided it would benefit everyone in the situation if he left. 

He'd never stop loving Sam, he was sure of that, as sure as he was of the fact he should have figured this out before now. But honestly, he felt a little cheated. This was what brothers were _supposed_ to talk about. Sam was so adamant that they be truthful with each other, but then he kept something like this a secret. Was it just that he thought Dean already knew? Did he think this wasn't important? 

Maybe it wasn't that at all. Maybe, Dean thought with a sudden stroke of anger, Sam hadn't _wanted_ him to know. Was that how Sam felt about him, that he'd be like their father and throw Sam out for wanting something different?

(Or maybe not so different, deep down, but Dean wouldn't let himself entertain that idea. That _wasn't_ him. He didn't want what-- _who_ \-- he'd seen in the backseat of his car this morning. He liked women, he _only_ liked women, and fuck, now he was thinking about it, questioning it, and that's the exact type of thing he wasn't supposed to do.)

He'd loved their father, he really had, but he'd roll over and die before he became the same man John Winchester was. He couldn't understand why Sam would ever feel like he'd be the way John had been, why he'd ever be afraid of telling Dean about something like this. It wasn't like Dean minded; he was pretty easygoing as far as these things were concerned. Well, he tried to be, at least. 

Except, fuck, he remembered--

 _Dude, could you_ be _more gay?_

He stopped dead in his tracks, dread and overwhelming guilt washing through his bones, because  _Jesus_ , had he really said that? It had been years ago, and that-- God,  _all_ those things he'd said-- had been nothing more than projections. They weren't supposed to hurt; he'd never hurt Sam, not on purpose. But what if Sam hadn't known that,  _didn't_ know that?

And this couldn't be a good start as a means of swaying Sam into a different mindset, how Dean had tumbled back out of the car, beet-red, and stormed off. In fact, this must have been exactly how Sam pictured it happening: Dean getting uncomfortable and stepping away for some air, wrapping his thick skull around everything, and-- what did Sam think he'd do, then? Say he didn't love Sam anymore? Tell Sam he couldn't have this one thing that made him happy? What the fuck kind of person did Sam take him for?

Dean swore, kicked at a dirt clod on the concrete, and spun around to make his way back to the car. He'd saved the world, once. He could fix this.

-

Sam was still doing up the buttons on his shirt when he saw Dean return, looking strangely ashamed of himself, and Sam didn't quite get it. Dean wasn't the one who'd just accidentally outed himself by getting caught with another guy. 

Sam _wasn't_ ashamed, though. A little embarrassed, sure, but he was pretty confident he'd feel like that if Dean had found him with a woman instead. 

Piper had gone, turning down Sam's phone number with a strange, knowing smile, saying he didn't fall for that long-distance crap. Because he knew, he'd said, that Sam wasn't coming back, and Sam really couldn't argue against that. 

All that was left now was to explain to Dean. 

"So," he started, gauging Dean's expression carefully as his brother slid into the driver's seat. "What you saw, it wasn't--" 

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

Oh.  _Oh_. That's not where Sam had seen this going. "What do you mean, 'why didn't I tell you?' _Why_ would I have told you?"

"'Cause you're fuckin' supposed to," Dean protested, not an ounce of disgust in his tone, and Sam was beyond confused.

"Are you... are you  _butt-hurt?_ Is that what this is about?"

Dean made a scoffing noise at the back of his throat, kept his gaze pinned to the steering wheel. "I just... I hate that you thought it would change anything. 'S not how this works, Sammy. There aren't conditions you gotta follow."

Sam's brow furrowed. "I know that." 

"Then why didn't you--?" 

"I didn't think it mattered, okay? I still don't get why it matters. I was... I don't know, if there was a time and a place, I'd have told you, but it never felt right. Everything was always falling apart, and in the grand scheme of things, the type of people I choose to sleep with didn't seem that important. That's all." Sam paused, waiting for the hurt in Dean's face to lessen. When it didn't, he said, "I wasn't afraid, Dean, if that's what you're hung up on. I got over that a while ago, even before Dad-- before he was gone." 

Dean's palms were working at the faded denim over his knees, an obvious anxious tic. "I can't stop remembering all that shit I said to you, stuff I said not even two years ago. And I don't..." He shrugged half-heartedly, pulling in a corner of his lower lip with his teeth. "If I ever hurt you, Sammy... I want you to know I didn't mean it like that. I'd _never_ mean it like that." 

Sam wasn't sure what to do. It wasn't like his brother's words hadn't hurt, because they had. The only difference, really, was that Sam had let those things drop minutes after they'd been said. Dean, now, was clearly gripping them tight, reliving all his petty, unconscious mistakes.

"I know," Sam said. "I know you didn't mean it." 

"And you know I don't care if you're... if you're gay, right?" Dean tripped over the words as they left his mouth, but he was trying his hardest. That much was clear to Sam, and that's all that mattered.

"Of course. But I'm, well-- I'm not actually _gay._ "

"Don't try and pull that on me," Dean argued, "not after I saw you, in  _my goddamn car--_ "

"Dean, I'm not lying to you. And I'm not gay, alright? I like girls, I do. I don't really... have a preference, I guess." 

Dean's eyes narrowed, suspicious. "There's more than two-- two thingies?" 

Sam was grinning despite himself. "You don't necessarily have to pick one and stick with it. Like... Let's take your thing with pie, right?" 

"Let's not." 

"You like pie, but there's also, say... cake. And a whole bunch of other stuff, actually--"

"You're losing me with this metaphor, Sam."

"Yeah, I'll explain that later-- what I'm saying is some people like pie, some people like cake, and some people like both. Or everything."

Dean looked skeptical, but not in a way that he didn't _believe_ Sam. He was just confused, out of his depth. "And you... I don't know the word for both. But you like both?" 

Sam made a 'sort of, not really' gesture with one of his hands. "Not _both_ , it's-- that's like saying there are only two types to pick from, and that's not true. I'm open to anything." 

"I don't know what that means." 

"That's okay, it's kind of complicated."

"Would you explain it to me? At a later time, when my brain doesn't feel ready to explode?"

"Yeah, of course." 

Dean nodded, and silence hung between them for a while as they both took it all in, but it wasn't awkward or tense or anything.

And then something distinctively _Dean_ returned to his features, like he'd figured everything out, decided exactly how he was going to play his cards in order to put things back into place. Cracking a grin, he ventured for some normality and said, "You know, I'm proud of you, Sam. Really. I mean, when's the last time you had a fling like that?"

" _Dean_."

"You got his name though, I bet. You never did get a hang of the idea of an anonymous fuck, did you? What was his name?" 

Sam's cheekbones grew pink, but he leaned back against the headrest of the passenger seat and smiled. "Piper." 

Dean snorted. "Aw, man, _Piper?_ That's such a cliché, Sammy, come on, everybody's had a one night stand with a _Piper_." 

And it was back to their routine, as simple as that, like nothing had changed. Nothing  _had_  changed. 

"Shut up, Dean." 

"Had a good head of hair, that Piper," Dean commented. "You must've been jealous." 

"Yeah, that's how we started talking," Sam replied, lighthearted sarcasm in his tone. 

Dean laughed, and it was quiet and teasing, but it was real. He shoved the keys in the ignition and the Impala revved to life. As he put the car in reverse, he fiddled with the radio until a familiar guitar rhythm started up. 

"Oh my _God, no_ \--" 

"Let it happen, Sammy--"

"Don't  _Night Moves_ me." 

"Shh, just let it wash over you." 

They pulled out of the parking lot, Bob Seger's voice coming out of the old scratchy speakers, Dean singing along off-key with Sam grinning to himself and finishing buttoning his shirt, and they sailed down the empty street. 

**Author's Note:**

> _Ain't it funny how the night moves_   
>  _When you just don't seem to have as much to lose_   
>  _Strange how the night moves_   
>  _With autumn closing in_


End file.
